


Way Down the Road

by owlaholic68



Category: Dungeons & Dragons (Roleplaying Game), Original Work
Genre: Childhood, Face-blind character, Gen, Magic, Mention - Freeform, Muteness, POV Third Person Limited, Slave Trade, World Travel, Worldbuilding
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-19
Updated: 2020-01-19
Packaged: 2021-02-27 15:54:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,780
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22319710
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/owlaholic68/pseuds/owlaholic68
Summary: Two Drow kids on their own.
Comments: 1
Kudos: 6





	Way Down the Road

Papa said to stick together. Papa said to stay safe. Papa gave lots of good advice about travelling and surviving and not getting swindled or killed. Papa is smart.

Unfortunately, Papa forgot to give them an umbrella.

Harry silently sighs and tries to clean off his glasses for the hundredth time. It’s useless. His cloak is just as soaked as the glass, and all he does is smear it.

He argues with Lucien for the fifth time if they should just try to stop under a good bunch of trees and fashion some kind of shelter until the storm passes.

“The trade stop is only another hour down the road,” Lucien argues. He sighs and pulls up the hood of his cloak even further. “There should be a stable there we can shelter in.”

 _Fine._ Harry shrugs and continues walking. He takes his brother’s hand and squeezes it. _We’ll figure it out._

They spend their first night hidden in the corner of a leaky stable. Huddled together under Papa’s enchanted blanket. It smells like home. Harry traces the familiar runes embroidered into the fabric keeping them toasty warm. He silently cries. Lucien tries to pretend he’s not doing the same.

* * *

Street kids are smart.

“The baker down the street will give ya day-old pieces,” one advises.

“Don’t work for the inn-keeper on the corner,” a scrawny girl warns. “She hits you.”

“The farm with the bright red sign has a spare barn you can sleep in.”

“Bandits lurk in the road ahead – take the path through the woods instead.”

“Thank you,” Lucien says. He gives them a copper or two, or a piece of food neither of them like, or whatever they can spare.

 _We don’t need to live like street kids,_ Harry argues with his eyes. _We have money._

“We should save money, though. We don’t know when an emergency might occur. In the meantime, we should try to be frugal.”

 _Fine._ Harry takes his hand and squeezes.

* * *

Papa messages them in Abyssal whenever he can. It’s not often. Sometimes weeks will go by and he’ll profusely apologize for the delay. He gets absorbed in projects and works until he collapses at his desk.

It obviously relieves him to hear that they’re doing okay. Lucien stops mentioning the bad parts unless he can spin them into an interesting or funny story.

“You can always come home,” he says. He says this at the end of every message. “Even if just to visit.”

Lucien gathers his thoughts and prepares for his return message.

“We’re doing okay, Papa. We miss you. Harry says hello and he hopes you are not overworking. He drew a picture of a waterfall we passed. We’ll try to mail it the next time we’re in town. We will arrive in Késhéz by the end of the week. Things are going well. We’re okay on money.” Lucien clears his throat and fights back tears. “We – we love you, Papa.”

The message ends and Lucien cries into his brother’s shoulder.

Things weren’t gong well. Unseasonal storms had delayed their progress and made their journey miserable. They’d ran out of rations a few days ago and had been surviving off whatever they could find. On this road at this time of year, not a lot.

Possibly corrupt guards had harassed them at the last travel checkpoint and had tried to take Harry’s sketchbook. Lucien had to bargain and give them his calligraphy kit instead. They couldn’t have risked losing the sketchbook. It was their most reliable way to earn money. Calligraphy had done them okay, but most people appreciated drawings more.

“P-Papa gave me that kit for my birthday,” Lucien sobs. “He knew h-how much I liked it and he wanted me to stop borrowing and losing his supplies.” He wipes his eyes on Harry’s cloak. “I p-promised I’d take good care of it and never lose any of it and – and now I lost the whole thing-”

Harry squeezes him in a tight hug. He’s not crying but his lip is wobbling like he wants to. Blue eyes grim behind his thick glasses. _We’ll be okay,_ his eyes say. He’s easy to read once you get to know him.

“We’ll be okay,” Lucien agrees. He wipes his eyes one final time and blows his nose on a handkerchief. Embroidered with his initials and an amateur depiction of their lighthouse tower home. Papa had spent months learning to embroider so that he could embroider powerful sigils into fabric. This handkerchief was one of his first successful mundane projects.

Papa. Home. He misses home. They both do.

* * *

Things do get better. In the northern coastal city of Késhéz, they get coin and free lodging helping to shear sheep. Harry sells wonderful impressionistic sketches at a fire twirling festival. There are lots of families here, families who have a few spare silver for portraits.

Harry weaponizes his big sad eyes and silence to get them a discount on rations. Good rations, hardy trail mix and lamb jerky.

“Let’s take a riverboat East to Hégashé,” Lucien suggests. “The captain said it’ll only be a few silver for the both of us. We’ve got the money.”

Harry readily agrees. They need a few days off their feet. Lucien is wearing a hole in the heel of his boots despite their hardy quality.

* * *

“You can come home,” Papa says. “Even if just to visit. Even if just for a day.”

* * *

They get an exceptionally lucky break in Hégashé. One of the local woodworkers notices Harry’s steady hand and eye for color.

“I need a hand making a new mural on the side of the Guild,” she says. “I own a local workshop. Once that is done, if you’re still in town, I could use someone to decorate my small pieces. My apprentice is good at whittling, but shit at drawing.”

Harry’s heart soars. He enthusiastically nods.

They work on the Guildhall for five days. Lucien earns them free nights at a local inn by running errands and helping in the kitchen. The woodworking master doesn’t mind Harry’s silence. She learns to read the tilt of his head and the quirk of his smile. Not bad for a stranger.

She pays him fifteen gold. He holds back tears until he gets back to the inn room, then he silently screams with delighted laughter, picking up his brother and twirling him around the room until they both tumble onto the threadbare bed.

Lucien is exhausted from his inn work, but he’s so happy too. He gives Papa the great news the next time he messages. They stay for another three days to wait out a nasty storm. Harry works in the woodshop and earns another five gold for his artistic talent.

“The meat caravan heading to the Hub is kind,” street urchins advise them. A scrawny pair of half-orc twins who look a few years younger than them. “They don’t ask for much work, they give you tea, and they let you sleep in the wagons.”

“Thank you.” Lucien gives them his worn boots. They’ll buy another pair before they leave, and these ones still have some life in them. “We appreciate it.”

* * *

The caravan is good advice. They are good travelling companions. They have a Drow guard among them who delights in chatting in Undercommon with them.

They lose the Drow guard in a flash flood while crossing an engorged river.

 _It’ll be okay._ Harry worries the edge of Lucien’s sleeve between his fingers. _At least we still have each other._ His brother pats his hand. They keep quiet and out of the way and stay with the caravan until they reach the Hub.

* * *

They don’t stay long at the Hub. The center of the wheel of their continent. It’s bustling and loud and there’s opportunities to make money, but there are also dangers around every corner.

They dodge out of a mugger’s grasp by the skin of their long ears. They escape out the back window of their motel when a confused raging drunkard half-beats down their door. Someone tries to swindle them more times than they can count.

But they make decent money in the squares. Enough to scrape up for a riverboat down to Tulusu on the southern coast. The ship captain is rough with them and probably overcharges. He’s suspicious of two kids on their own. He thinks they’re running from something.

* * *

They lose the captain in a rocky accident. The Quartermaster, the new captain, is better. He slips them crusts of bread and stew leftovers from the crew’s meals.

Tulusu is confusing and loud. The ring of hammers on metal, twisting hills and narrow alleys, gaudy bright houses. Bright, bright, too bright.

Lucien is lost. He’d gone out shopping alone for rations and found a good shop with hard cheese and biscuit tack. Meant for sailors but good enough for two kids.

But now Lucien doesn’t remember the name of the inn they were staying at. He’d been out for an hour at most and he’d already forgotten.

“Idiot, idiot,” he mutters to himself in Infernal. Few Tieflings in town, mostly dragonborn, so nobody to understand the whispered curse words he’s not supposed to know yet. He’s on a main corner looking around. It was near here, maybe?

Red. The inn door was red. Or orange? An orangey-red, perhaps. His color sense is almost as bad as his spotty memory.

He should have had Harry write down the name of the inn for him. This city is a bit rough and it’s no good place for a kid to get lost. Lucien hides under the stairs of a nearby theatre and tries to think. He _tries_ to remember, he tries not to forget things, but he can’t help it. Names and places and directions slip right out of his head in minutes.

Faces, too. He couldn’t draw Papa from memory the way that Harry could. He couldn’t describe his brother except by his glasses, his blue eyes, his bright white curly hair, his charcoal-stained fingers.

Lucien’s thinking is interrupted by a familiar voice in his head.

He bursts into tears. Papa is choosing _now_ to send him a message? He’d have no way of knowing that Lucien was lost, of course, but the timing, the timing...

Papa’s message is normal: how are they doing, is everything okay, are they good on money, where are they now. His message ends the way it always does: “You can come home if you want,” he says. Every time. “Even if just for a day. Come and say hi. I miss you.”

“P-Papa,” Lucien cries. “I’m in a southern city and I’m lost and I – I’m not with Harry right now, he’s back at the inn but I don’t remember the name of the inn and I don’t remember what it looks like. I – I’m in a main square by,” he looks up at the theatre sign, “by the Sorrowful Scene theater and I don’t know what to do and I miss you Papa-”

The message ends. There is an awful silence and Lucien is so, so alone. He buries his head between his knees and wrings the ends of his ears and cries and cries and cries-

A hand on his shoulder.

Lucien jumps and looks up and his _brother_ is here. Harry looks confused and panicked. He hugs him and they hide under the theatre stairs together.

“H-How did you find me?” Lucien asks when he catches his breath. “I d-don’t even know where I am, Harry, I – I’m so lost and I didn’t remember what the inn looked like.”

Harry rummages in his pocket for a scrap of parchment and a pen.

 _Papa messaged me,_ he writes in his graceful scrawl shorthand. _He sounded scared. He said you were lost and told me where you were._ He pauses and wipes away tears of his own. _It was nice to hear his voice even if I couldn’t respond._

“It’s _always_ nice to hear his voice.” Lucien wipes his face with a handkerchief. “Thank you. Let’s go back.”

Lucien gets another message as they get back to the inn. He trips on the stairs up to their room. _Three_ messages in one day? Papa usually sends one every week if he can. But three? They’ve never even gotten two in one day.

“Are you alright now?” Papa sounds really upset and exhausted. He sounds like he’s going to pass out. “Lucien, please just respond and tell me if Harry found you and if you’re okay. I’m worried, I’m so worried, you two need to be more careful. Have Harry write down information-” the message abruptly cuts off. Lucien jolts from the suddenness. Papa usually plans out and writes down his words in advance as to not get cut off by the word limit.

“I’m okay now.” He sniffs and blows his nose again. “Harry got your message and he found me. He says it’s nice to hear from you. We will try better. I’m sorry for worrying you. I – I love you, Papa.”

They don’t stay in Tulusu for long. It’s too confusing and disorienting. They gather supplies and head back up north through farm country.

* * *

“This one’s squirmy but quiet.” A bandit wrestles Harry into a too-small cage and locks the heavy door. “You got the other one, Joelle?”

Harry silently screams as another bandit – no, a Slaver based on the cages – pins Lucien down and throws him into a similar cage. He rattles the lock and the door.

The man who grabbed him kicks the cage. “Shut up, kid. Or don’t shut up, rather.” He laughs to himself and kicks the cage again. “You stupid? Answer me.”

“He can’t talk!” Lucien yells. “He’s mute!”

“Hm. Damaged goods.” The man heaves the cages up onto a cart. They’re next to each other. Harry reaches through the small bars and grabs Lucien’s shaking hand.

Slavers. Bandits. They’d gotten lucky avoiding them so far. It seems their luck has ran out.

The cart is covered by a heavy blanket to block out the sun and disguise the less-than-legal cargo.

“We’ll search them later!” One of the Slavers yells. “I’d like to reach town by sundown. Besides, they’re kids – their bags probably just have sweets and teddy bears.”

One of them laughs. “The one kid looks like trouble,” she remarks. “The talking one. Squirmy and bitey. But the dumb one – we’ve got a market for him. I know plenty of criminals who’d pay good coin for a servant kid who couldn’t spill their secrets. We’ll see when we get to the city.”

The only silver linings: they hadn’t been searched. Their cages are next to each other and they can see in the dim light. They aren’t well guarded. And their packs are sitting a few feet away in the covered cart.

Packs. Lucien has a battered set of lockpicks in his bag. They’d planned on selling them.

 _Mage Hand,_ Harry gestures to Lucien. _Grab your bag._

His eyes light up and he nods. He casts a small shaky Mage Hand that quietly rummages through his bag until he finds the lockpicks.

“I don’t know how to actually use them,” he whispers. “I haven’t learned.”

 _Just try,_ Harry urges. He points at the locks, which looks rusty. _The locks are probably cheap._

His hunch is correct. It only takes ten long minutes of Lucien quietly swearing before his cage opens. The door squeaks but the noise is covered up by the rattle of cart wheels. It takes him half the time for Harry’s cage. Staying low under the blanket, they slip on their packs.

 _Three, two, one-_ Harry counts down on his fingers. He covers their escape with a minor illusion.

They slip safely into the woods. No alarm is raised from the cart. They’re both shaking as they quietly move through the woods, following a small hunting path. They’ll have to avoid the road and towns in this area. Stay in the woods and try to find places to camp.

But they’ll survive. They’ll be okay as long as they’re together.

* * *

They don’t mention the incident to Papa.

“Harry says to get better,” Lucien says in a message. Papa had made himself sick from worry and from overreaching, using so many messaging spells in one day. “He wants you to stop overworking. We’ll send you a drawing soon from the tea fields. We’re okay. Love you.”

The message ends. It’s not too much of a lie, at least.

They _are_ okay. Things are fine. They’re not dead and they’re safe for now. They have food and clothes and some money.

They will be okay.

**Author's Note:**

> Two Drow NPCs and a bunch of locations from my D&D campaign.


End file.
